Mourning With Those That Mourn

Julie and I became friends during our junior year of high school. Our paths would have never crossed had it not been for Senior Choir. We didn’t run with the same circle of friends. I was LDS – she was Catholic. She smoked and I did not. But through our association in the choir we had many opportunities to get to know each other better.

Julie was a good person—smart, witty, and fun to be around. During the last half of our senior year I was elected choir president. Julie was vice-president, although if an outsider had observed the way we took care of our responsibilities they would have thought the roles were reversed because she was so much more diligent than I was.

Although Julie and I were friends, we were never really close enough to talk about anything serious, so it was all the more surprising when, just days before graduation, I found out how she felt about me. It was May, 1965, and we were at a cast party after the choir's final "Spring Show." Julie and I were dancing and making small talk. Suddenly she said: "You are such a great guy. I want you to know that the only person I respect more than you is my priest."

I was speechless. Here we'd been classmates for two years, performing together, working side-by-side, but we’d never had a conversation about anything of a serious nature. To receive such a compliment from her was very humbling, and it created a bond between us, even though we were about to graduate and go our separate ways.

After graduation I was busy with my summer job and looking forward to going away to BYU in the fall. One day in mid-summer I was browsing through the newspaper, and an article caught my eye. It was about a terrible car accident in which the mother of several children had been killed—Julie's mother. I felt terrible for her loss.

I should have called Julie and told her how sorry I was, but I didn't. I should have gone to the funeral, but I didn’t. The least I could have done was to send her a sympathy card, but I didn't even do that. I did nothing -- not because I didn't care, but because I just didn't know what to say.

A few weeks before leaving for BYU, I phoned Julie. We had a friendly visit, and I asked if she'd like to go to a movie. She accepted and even offered to cook dinner for us before the show. I looked forward to seeing her again, and that evening she had a nice dinner prepared. It was during dinner that she asked the question I'd been dreading, but which I deserved to be asked: "Why didn't you call me after my mother died?" There was no angry accusation in her voice, only sadness and disappointment. I didn’t really have an excuse. My only explanation was that I had stayed away because I didn’t know what to say.

Time and experience have given me a new perspective about how to respond when someone close to you has a death in the family. I firmly believe that we worry too much about what to say in these circumstances, and even though we mean well, we usually end up uttering some dumb cliché thinking it’ll make things better. But it doesn’t.

In the Book of Mormon we are taught that one of our duties as a disciple of Christ is to “mourn with those that mourn” (Mosiah 18:9). But guess what? The word “mourn” doesn’t necessarily mean we have to say anything. What really matters is that we simply be there for them, as illustrated in this excerpt from one of my favorite books, "The Book of Jewish Values." In the chapter titled "Enter a Mourner's Home With Silence" the author, a rabbi, tells this story:

"I remember that when Rabbi Wolfe Kelman . . . lost his sister, Rabbi Heschel . . . said, 'We have to go.' We went to the airport. We flew to Boston, got into a cab and went to the house. Heschel walked in, he hugged them, he sat silently for an hour. He didn't mumble a single cliché [such as] 'How old was she?' [What difference does it make?] . . . 'Time will heal.' – [Time won't heal] . . . 'I know how you feel.' –[You don't know how I feel]. None of the clichés. He just sat there in silence for an hour. And then he got up, hugged them, and we left. I learned that you don't have to be glib. You just have to care."

A few days ago we attended the funeral of my dearest friend. His name was Richard. At the viewing, the funeral, the graveside dedication and the luncheon that followed, large numbers of friends lined up to offer their condolences to Richard’s wife and daughters. But eventually it all ended, relatives from out of town went home, and his wife returned to an empty house.

The next day, Sunday, we made the 750-mile trek back home, and within minutes of our walking into the house I received the following e-mail from Richard’s wife: “I went by the cemetery on the way home from church. I sure hope this gets easier to be without Richard.” And then it hit me: The funeral may be over but some serious mourning is only now beginning. Now is the time to show meaningful support—when she’s all alone and having to deal with a big hole in her life. Now is the time to “mourn with those that mourn." And one more thing: Now is not the time for dumb clichés.

I am resolved to stay in frequent contact with her. And when I do I won’t say things like “Time heals all wounds”—how would I know that?—or “I know how you feel”—no I don’t! I will tell her how much I’m still hurting—because I really am—and then I will listen, not preach—and we will mourn together.